


They told him (until they didn't)

by LoneswaggingRanger



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Deals with different timelines, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Hydra Peter Parker, Not our Peter, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker is Tony Stark's Biological Child, Peter Parker is a Little Shit, Sort of happy ending, Tony Stark Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:08:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25304296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoneswaggingRanger/pseuds/LoneswaggingRanger
Summary: "Soldat."Soldat. Soldier. That was him. They told him that was him.He held out his arms, as he had so many times before. "Hail Hydra."*In which Tony Stark is somehow biologically related to the Peter Parker of another universe, and how they just have to deal with it.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 25
Kudos: 127
Collections: The Friendly Neighborhood Exchange





	They told him (until they didn't)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CoupdeFruita](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoupdeFruita/gifts).



> Hello! This is for the Friendly Neighbourhood Exchange. I... might have misinterpreted the information given and ended up merging three prompts into one so, um, sorry! Nevertheless, thank you for the prompts and CoupdeFruita, I hope you'll enjoy this~
> 
> (PS: On a side note, the series of events in this fic takes place during Endgame, when Tony and the others were figuring out the time machine thing. HowEVER, I might have jacked up the timelines a bit so the rest of what happens is kind of up for debate.)

“Soldat.” 

Soldat. Soldier. That was him. They told him that was him.

He stood at attention, hands clasped behind his back, eyes forward and not seeing. Yet another mission he would no doubt accomplish flawlessly. There would be another one for him the next day, and the next, and the next. All of which he would obey, because he was a soldier and that was what good soldiers did.

“Mission rundown: Repeat.” His handler’s impassive voice.

“Mission quality: Stealth. Speed to enemy ground at 10 kilometres per second. Reach within 8.5 minutes. Retrieve time capsule in guarded safe. Return to base. Time constraint: 1 hour and 30 minutes,” His throat rasped from disuse.

_(Silence, Soldat. There is no use for a soldier’s voice.)_

“Mission directive confirmed." His handler waved dismissively. "Carry out."

He held out his arms, as he had so many times before. “Hail Hydra.”

He heard others repeat after him, voices in unison. The sole proof that Hydra forever stayed as one, for if one limb was cut off, two more would take its place.

*

If he were to be honest, Mission quality: Stealth was definitely on his short list of favourites, falling second only to Mission quality: Rest. Far beneath his area of expertise, of course, but still highly preferred over Mission quality: Kill or the dreaded, Mission quality: Maim.

His feet padded quietly against cold concrete, breath slowing to match the current wind directions. Stealth rule #49: _Keep breaths in harmony with surroundings, lest it give away your position._ He remembered mastering this rule with ease, earning himself an onslaught of jeering taunts for being more of a meditator instead of the soldier he was supposed to be. The hazing stopped once he meted out Stealth rule #50 on ten different individuals the week after. It was the first time his handler nodded at him with acknowledgement.

It was the first time he had seen the need for tears.

He leapt from roof to ground within three swift seconds. Two ropes of webs coiled themselves round the necks of two suited guards just getting ready to react, pulling till he felt the resounding crack of tendons carving nerves. Stealth rule #50: _Terminate obstacles quietly, lest it alert others of your presence._

_(No tears, Soldat. No tears for the dead, only for the weak.)_

He crept over the unmoving bodies, flipping out a slick pin to pry open the pathetically-easy-to-pick lock slung over the metal gates.

Hydra's Spider Mutation Project had excelled beyond expectations, and he was outcome of said success. More soldiers like him would come along, they told him, all to be trained and moulded as he had. Soon, Hydra would have a breed of super-powered mutants at their beck and call, and he would be their pioneer of excellence.

Or so he thought, before waves of acid green swept him off his feet.

*

“Failure is inexcusable, Soldat,” His handler had told him once, when he was but a fledgling fighter on his first mission. “There is no room for failure here, even for you. Especially for you.”

His fingers had twitched at the dangerous dip in his handler’s tone.

“You know what lies ahead if you fail, do you not?”

“Yes, sir.” He'd never disobeyed an order since.

*

 _(_ _You’ve failed, Soldat._ _)_

The soldier’s eyes snapped open.

“Hey there, sunshine.” A voice. Unfamiliar.

His head whipped up, lips twisting as he considered the unknown man standing inches away from him. His arms lifted upwards in a placating manner, eyes of deep earth meeting his own burnt sienna ones. A strange blue glow burned from the center of his chest.

“So, uh, you’re still Peter Parker, right?”

This was a punishment, wasn’t it? It had to be. Why else would the weapon be removed from his wrists? Why else would the mask be removed from his face? Why else would he be lying on a bed, so exposed and so vulnerable?

“Peter?” The Unknown whispered, sending shivers down his spine.

The Unknown must be handler to his punishment.

“I- shit, you’re really not my Peter, are you?” The Unknown sounded disappointed. He tensed, far too familiar with the consequences of making his handler disappointed. “No matter, all’s good. Just popped in so you’d know that you’re not currently in your timeline and there’s a scientist - two scientists, actually- working on it. You’ll be back sooner than you know it.”

Back, he would be back. He would be back. This would be over soon.

“You getting any of this, kid?”

He nodded.

_(Soldiers either do or die, Soldat, no questions asked.)_

“Great, good to know,” The Unknown turned away from him, walking to the door with a clipped tone and pained grimace. “Call me if you need anything.”

_(There is more to come, Soldat. Always, more to come.)_

The door closed with an inaudible click.

*

“He’s a _kid_ , Rhodey,” The Unknown’s voice rang clear one night. “Why would they _do_ that to a kid?”

“I don’t know, Tones,” said another voice, this one less taut and more resigned. “They’re Hydra, they do all kinds of bad.”

 _I’m Hydra._ Part of him wanted to yell, wanted to scream at the ceiling with fists pumping in the air. _I can hear everything you’re saying from down here._

But he didn’t, because in that moment, lying on the strange soft bed and hearing voices speak of him as if he wasn’t there, he felt nothing. He was nothing.

*

 _“Mactep, Mactep, look!” A boy with pale cheeks and jutting bones waved. “My weapon. I made my weapon.”_ _He held out prototype_ _9_ _2_ _, chest puffing out in pride._

 _His handler_ _eyed him from above_ _, cold and calculating as he studied the gadget presented._

Run! _He wanted to_ _tell_ _the foolish child._ Run like you’ve never run before!

_“Your weapon, now?” So condescending was his tone. “Pray tell, young Soldat, what does it do?”_

_In an instant, th_ _e_ _gadget was_ _fastened excitedly_ _over_ _his_ _small_ _wrists. Strings of chemical webbing catapulted him from one corner to the next. He swerved, feinted and dodged all the incoming attacks_ _only lethal enough to test him_ _, smile bright on his face at the impressed whistle his handler gave._

No, you fool. _He buried his face into his calloused hands._ No. _He knew what was to come._

 _A cacophony of screams and cries, and suddenly the soldier was the one restrained upon metal. The soldier was the one_ _begging for mercy as the weapon drilled_ _into_ _his_ _fragile skin_ _, as pain pulsed through his veins and tampered body. Hot moist_ _flushed out from his eyes_ _, leaving him all the more frightened with his vision now blurred._

_Tomorrow, young Soldat, tomorrow, you fight._

He fought. He toppled the weight pinning him down, snarling as his strong fingers pressed against the thud of life against flesh. Soon, there would be only a cold neck beneath his hands. Soon, he would scramble off the body, huddling in on himself, reciting: _No tears, Soldat. No tears for the dead, only for the weak_ like a broken cassette tape out of time. Soon-

“Tony?” Another voice. Another unknown. “I heard a crash, you all right in there?” His iron grasp loosened in shock.

“Just fine, Brucey-bear,” The Unknown coughed out. “Peter fell out of bed. I’m getting him back in, ‘s all.”

He hastily jumped off The Unknown, scuttering away on his knees to put as much distance between them as he could with both of them sprawled on the floor.

“If you say so,” came the uncertain reply, followed by loud thumping footsteps retreating from the door.

A tense silence spread its pointed wings all across the room, honing in on him from all sides. Its feathers resembled the spike of thistles on cactae, except it was way longer and definitely sharp enough to pierce through his lungs. They rendered him breathless, forcing away any semblance of air from his gasping lungs. So this was to be his punishment before death, then?

_(This time, Soldat, this time, you must come.)_

“Kid? Kid, hey, I think you need to breathe.”

Breathe? What a joke. There was no room for failures like him.

“You are _not_ a failure,” The Unknown was coming closer, arms stretching tentatively towards his strained form, even though he had just been a strangled victim only moments before. “Figures that a Peter Parker from a wholly different universe would still have the same guilt complex mine did. Geez, kid-”

A hand came to rest upon his shuddering back.

“-just breathe, alright? Come on, follow me now: inhale,” An exaggerated breath in. “Five, four, three, two, one.” Paced counting. “Alright, all together now: exhale. See, easy-peasy. Let’s do this again: inhale.”

He breathed as ordered. And then, when the wings vanished and his lungs expanded without needing directive, his own eyes teared up because he had _never_ been held like this before. He had never been soothed with warm hands circling his back, never been shushed so demurely as his stifled sobs increased ever so steeply in volume.

_(Pick yourself up, Soldat. You have come.)_

“Who are you?” His voice trembled, not heeding the fear smacking his head for speaking without permission. It was as if a dam had broke for words to come tumbling out of him, “Mission operative was compromised, sir. I didn’t know-I-I am a soldier, I know my mistakes. You must-”

“ _I_ must not do anything to you,” He flinched at the terseness of his words. He must have spoken too out of turn. “Kid,” The voice fell gentle once more. “I’m Tony Stark. Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist at your service. I’m not sure if I exist in your timeline, but- yeah, I definitely do exist. Look at that face. God.” The Unknown snorted a grim laugh.

He didn’t know what face The Unknown was referring to, but he was fairly sure that the Tony Stark in his ‘timeline’ (whatever that meant) was supposed to be son of Howard Stark, former C.E.O of Stark Industries, and alpha opponent in Hydra’s database, also known as Iron Man. This was a known enemy.

But he was in another world now, wasn’t he? Perhaps they were not enemies in this world. Perhaps-

“Then who am I, in your world?” He blurted, hands clamping over his mouth before more beguiling thoughts forced his tongue loose. No soldier were allowed to ask about themselves. Only claim information from the other, never for themselves.

“You?” His shoulders were pressed lightly against that strange blue glow. “You’re Peter Benjamin Parker, finest superhero ever known in town.”

“Superhero? I’m a superhero?” The childish glee bubbling in him was unlike any feeling he’d ever encountered. He felt almost certain that the unknown wouldn’t fault him for it. He was in another world now, after all. “Will you tell me more of your world, sir?”

“In due time, kid. In due time,” He sounded worn, but the arms wrapped tight over his slight frame conveyed volumes. “Also? Call me Tony. I’m not- I’m not Hydra.”

He nodded. He’s never disobeyed an order before.

*

“Peter.”

Peter. Peter Parker. That was him. They told him that was him.

They told him many things. They told him they were trying to reverse time, to bring their world back to what it once was before the Mad Titan (Thanos, they called him) snapped half of their existence away. They told him their machine reacted when he made contact with the time capsule, causing a rift to appear for him to slip through. They told him they had to bring him back.

They also told him that what Hydra did was wrong (He had shut down for days afterwards, refusing to eat until Tony coaxed him to do so with one stern glare. He didn’t believe them. He still didn’t.) They told him that no child as young as him should have weapons embedded in their skin, nor should he be punished for not killing a man. (In fact, they told him he shouldn’t have killed at all.) They told him that they would bring him back to safety.

“Come on, Peter. Blue or green. Make a choice,” Tony folded his arms, making a show of rolling his eyes, though Peter knew what he was doing.

He was giving him a choice. He was giving him many choices lately, be it the colour of his shirt, whether he wanted more meals or not, whether he wanted his mask back or not… he gave him a lot of choices.

_(So what will you do now, Soldat?)_

“Um, blue, I suppose,” Peter tilted his head to the side. “With a little red as well, please?”

Tony let out a snort. “Sure pal, red and blue walls, coming right up.”

They told him they had to bring him back, and yet _he_ seemed more fixed on making him stay.

“Your choice, kid. I’m not going to judge.”

Peter smiled softly. “I know.”

_*_

Once, when he had woken to a sky of shimmering ruby and sapphire, he heard voices.

“He’s my _what?_ ”

“Your son,” said the big green man. Peter could recognise his booming voice from anywhere. “Aside from the mutated factors, his blood type and genetic makeup matches exactly with yours.”

“But _our_ Peter didn’t-”

“This isn’t our Peter.” An odd twinge at the back of his chest.

_(For all soldiers like him must return home some day.)_

He was feeling something. He wasn’t sure what it was, though, so he turned to his side and shut his ears, hurtling himself back into a night of endless frights.

*

They gave him time, a lot of time. They gave him time to think how to respond to their words, and when he opted not to, they smiled and said it was okay. It was okay to not answer a question when asked.

They gave him space, as well. He was allowed to lock his room if he felt like it. He was allowed to sit further from them on the dining table because crowded spaces made him feel nauseous. He was allowed space, and was free to roam in it.

They gave him reality, telling him the true happenings of now. They told him the general scheme of things, how Tony’s time machine might be able to generate another rift in his point of time, but it would be exactly at where he left it. They told him that that wasn’t the reality they wanted for him.

They gave him power, so much power. Not the power to lift trucks with a single hand, he’d always had that. He had the power to say no, whenever things became too much. He had the power to point out that minor mistake Tony made in his calculations. He had power to stretch his spine as tall as he wanted it to go.

They even gave him mind, too. They taught him words and how to write them, taught him equations and numbers and everything a kid like him should know. They praised him when he excelled, and helped him when he failed. They taught him that warm hugs were good and backhanded slaps were bad.

But most importantly, they gave him soul. Before, he had been but a mindless soldier, following orders of the handler who trained him. Now, he was acquainted with love and laughter. Now, he knew what it meant to call an identity his own.

They gave him so much, but Peter still wondered when it was that they would inevitably stop giving.

*

Two months, and they still hadn’t found a way to bring him back.

“Correction: We can bring him back.” Tony seethed. “But _I_ am _not_ letting you bring him back.”

Correction: Two months, and they still hadn’t found a way to make Tony agree with bringing him back.

“We have to, Tony,” said the man with golden hair - Captain Rogers, he was called. “He is not from our time. This isn’t right. We can’t tamper with timelines like this without bearing the consequences.”

“You wouldn’t say the same if this was Bucky, would you?”

Captain Rogers’ jaw clenched. Peter sensed a storm brewing.

“T-Tony, I think-”

“Nope, nope, nothing from you,” Tony pointed a finger at him. “I know what you’re going to say. You’re going to say: It’s fine, I can handle it. Send me back, it’s the right thing to do. Well guess what? I’m actually going to say no to this one. No.”

_(Every soldier ends as a soldier, surely you must know that by now, Soldat?)_

He clasped his hands behind his back, eyes forward and not seeing. “Apologies, sir.”

That elicited a peculiar choked noise from Tony’s vocal chords.

In the end, it was Captain Rogers who sighed and cleared the storm with a light, “We’ll figure this out together, alright?”

The moment Captain Roger’s stepped out of the room, Tony clambered all over Peter, hashing out frantic apologies and elaborated explanations, till Peter finally barked out a howl of laughter because who in the world packed 16 words in a second?

*

“You’re mine, you know that?” Tony asked one day over pie.

“Yeah,” Peter lifted a shoulder, still focused on forking the meat and the crust in one neat lump. “I heard you and Dr. Banner yelling about it two nights ago. Why?”

The big green man seated beside Tony spluttered. The redhead opposite him smirked. (Her name was Natasha Romanov, but she had told him to call her Tasha. Tony said he was the only one who could.)

“Nothing, I just-” Tony shifted in his seat. “I just wanted you to know.”

More like, he just wanted everyone to know. He probably already knew that he knew. Tony was more perceptive than he let on.

Peter noted the disturbed looks Captain Rogers and Tasha threw over their shoulders, as well as the quiet sigh one Clint Barton exhaled. Tony looked strangely at ease after all that, fresh jokes and jibes at the ready.

Yeah, he definitely wanted everyone to know.

Peter discretely rolled his eyes at Tony, earning himself a wide grin in return.

*

There were nights when Peter felt as if he might just lose it. Nights when he heard the shrieks of the poor mafia men whose innards he cleaved, when he saw the glassy gaze of the child he once murdered, when he tasted the metallic tang of blood in the cool air.

It was nights like this, that made Peter wonder: whatever in the world had he done to deserve all this care?

Tony told him it wasn’t his fault, told him that whatever happened happened and there was no deserving to be had. He swathed him in a woolen quilt, one he claimed Tasha to have ‘misplaced’ in his room. His arms had weaved its way around Peter’s torso, folding him tight against the beautiful blue of his chest. Then he whispered, “Do you want to know how I got this?” A finger tapped on the device.

Which was how Peter got himself a night full of stories, how he came to realise that perhaps all lives bore the same regret and guilt, but it all depended on how these lives chose to use these festering emotions moving forward.

Like Tony, who used his guilt and shame, and carved a saviour for all.

*

Tony said movies were imperative in building young children’s mind and that it was criminal for a child to not watch movies.

Peter doubted the idea to a fault. What mind was there looking at one grey cat chase another brown mouse? (It’s _Tom and Jerry_ , Pete’. It’s what they do.) Really, if it were that critical in fostering smart thinking, then why did Tony’s eyes _always_ fall shut 30 minutes into the movie?

“Tony,” Peter jiggled his knee against Tony’s leg that was propped atop his. “The show’s ended. Can we go back to the lab now?”

No response. Huh.

“Tony?” Peter inched closer towards the man, hand shaking his arm gently. That was weird. Tony usually woke at the slightest of sounds. “Tony?” Still no response. Peter gulped, pushing himself further into the man’s space. “Tony? Will you wake up?”

Carefully, he slid his fingers under the crook of Tony’s neck, pressing hard, assuring himself that as long as there was a reassuring thump, Tony’s heart was still beating and he was just asleep. Just. Asleep.

There was no thump.

Sucking in a breath, Peter shifted positions, trying all the pressure points he knew to be signs of life. “Tony? T-tony?” He called. “Are you asleep?”

There was no response. “Tony!” He couldn’t be dead, could he? They had just been arguing about how dumb the show was and earlier before that, they had been playing this cool board game called ‘chess’. There was no way he could be dead like this.

“Tony, please, you have to wake up,” Peter pleaded. “You can’t- I - Papochka, _please._ Papochka.”

A gasp. Tony’s eyes flashed open.

“Papochka,” Peter whimpered. “Papochka, thank god, I thought you were- I thought you were gone! Please don’t go like that, please don’t-”

“Pete, hey, Pete, it’s alright,” Tony’s arms flew to enclose Peter in a hug. “I’m here, buddy, I’m here.”

“Where did you _go_?” Hot tears sprang from his eyes and cascaded all the way down to his chin.

“Shh, I’m here now, that’s all that matters,” His fingers carded through Peter’s soft brown locks. “We’ll figure this out together, all right?”

Peter sniffled. “That’s what Captain Rogers said.”

A chuckle. “Yeah, that's definitely a Captain Rogers thing. Come on, let’s get you sorted for the night.”

Peter shuffled to his feet, leaning his weight into Tony as much as he could.

“T-tony?” He mumbled some time after they nestled themselves into his red and blue bed.

“Yeah?”

“Can I call you Papochka sometimes?”

A pause. “What does it mean?”

“Papa,” Peter said simply.

Another pause. A sniff. “If you want to, kid. If you want to.”

_(Perhaps a soldier ends as a soldier, but Papochkas never end.)_

_*_

It was his fault. It was his fault, that Tony kept floundering at the brink of life and death each time he fell asleep. He and Dr. Banner had formulated the hypothesis that, because Peter acted as an anomaly to this timeline, individuals in close contact with him had a higher tendency of experiencing existential inconsistency. Said hypothesis was tested positive after it became clear that while Tony (whom Peter had spent a large proportion of his time with) was suffering from severe dimensional imbalance, the other Avengers who had spent varying amounts of time with Peter had had their own share of ailments, be it in the form of dreams, shocks or simply falling asleep at odd times of the day.

Hence, all sentiments be damned, it was fact that Peter had to be sent back to his timeline as soon as possible, lest he caused everyone in this world to suffer for his presence.

Or so he said to Tony.

Predictably, Tony refuted the idea, shaking his head so vehemently Peter thought his neck might just snap. “We can’t send you back there, Pete. The moment you’re back in that spot, you’ll have to go back to becoming Hydra’s loyal soldier. I can’t- That can’t be you, Peter.”

“I could fight them,” Peter's feet tapped incessantly, steel evident in his voice. “I’m strong. They made me strong. I can-”

“And what, stay fighting for the rest of your life?”

“If I have to, Tony! I can’t stay here and watch you guys- watch you guys _die_ on me!”

“We’ll figure it out together. Here,” Tony gritted his teeth. “Together, Peter. I’m not leaving you there.”

“But you won’t have to!” Peter was near-hysterical. He had never been allowed opinions before, and now that he was, he’ll be damned sure at least someone heard a whiff of what he has to say. “Listen to me, Tony. The Tony Stark in my world, he lives too. The Tasha in my world, she lives as well. Literally every single one of you are still alive and kicking on Hydra’s alpha list ever since the battle of New York.”

“Battle of - just how far back _is_ your timeline?” Tony’s eyes shone with incredulity. “But you’re 15 now. How does that even-”

“The point, Tony,” Peter pursed his lips. “The point, is that I could just go find you guys in my world, and- and then we’d become superheroes together just like in your timeline! I’ll just tell my Tony that you’re my Papochka and I would be safe. _You_ would be safe.”

Tony stared at him. Blinked. “Y’know, I really like it when you say Papochka. It sounds so right.”

“The point, Tony!” Peter lifted his eyes to the ceiling. God, his father could be so dense sometimes. “It’s been half a year, and you’re all already like this. What’s going to happen if I stay for another half?”

“Alright, Pete’, alright,” Tony heaved a sigh. “I’ll think about it, ‘kay?”

Peter folded his arms. “You’d better.” He let a childish pout tug at the edges of his lips.

Tony huffed and ruffled his already mussed up hair. “I just can’t bear to lose you, kid. I mean, what if you’re not _actually_ my son in the other timeline? The Peter Parker that I knew, he wasn’t my son-not biologically, anyway.What if-”

“If you weren’t my Papochka by blood, Tony, you would still take me in. I know you would.”

“Yeah, Pete, but Tony Stark after the Battle of New York kind of-”

“ _Any_ Tony Stark from _any_ timeline would be my Papochka,” Peter gestured at himself. “ _This_ pretty much proves it.”

Tony stared again. And blinked again. “Why do you even speak Russian anyway?”

Peter sighed. There was only so long that his father could stay on a topic he didn't like. He shot him a look that said, _give this some thought or else_ , before launching into a romanticised version of his childhood with Hydra. He could tell Tony didn't buy his half-assed tale, but he was probably too relieved with the topic change to say anything about it anyway.

“...So how do you say ‘my son’ in Russian, then?” He asked, after Peter finally ended his tall tale.

Now it was Peter’s turn to blink at Tony. “Moy syn.”

He watched the mirrored words roll off Tony’s tongue, smirking slightly at how mispronounced they were.

*

_(You’ve succeeded, moy syn.)_

“You’re right, Pete. We need to send you back,” Tony muttered to him after the tenth time he had woken to Peter begging for him to _please_ be alive, he couldn’t leave him like this.

“Yes, Papochka,” Peter’s voice still wobbled from his earlier panic. “We must.”

*

“I know what my superhero name will be,” Peter stated as Tony flipped switches and buttons into motion.

He arched an eyebrow upwards. “Yeah?”

“Spiderman,” He declared with all the oomph he could into those three syllabus. “Get it? Because I can make webs and stick to stuff? And spiders do that so-”

“ _Yes_ , Peter, I get it,” Tony threw his head back in silent laughter. “I get it so well, you don’t even know.”

The other Avengers had left them alone after it was clear that this was actually happening. He was actually going back.

Tony’s thumb hovered over the last switch.

Peter shifted his weight nervously.“Tony?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry I’m not your Peter,” He clasped his hands behind his back. “I’m sorry I have to leave.”

Tony’s hand retracted from the button. His deep earthy eyes floated to meet Peter’s burnt sienna ones. Then he strode over to him in two short steps, sturdy arms reaching out for one last hug.

“Pete,” His muffled voice came from somewhere in his hair. A deep breath. “Sometimes bad things happen, but know this-” He pulled away, only so that he could look Peter in the eye, palms still gripping the sides of his forearms tightly.”-some of these bad things _might_ be because of you. But not all of them, alright?”

Peter nodded.

“Repeat what I said, moy syn,” His voice, it was so tender.

Peter almost cried. “Not all bad things that happen is because of me.”

“Yes, good,” Tony rewrapped Peter into his arms. “And this thing, Peter? It’s not actually all that bad.”

“But-”

Tony rubbed the trickle of moist tracing his cheeks, silencing him with the gentleness of said gesture. “It’s really not bad, Peter, when you come to think of it. This thing we’ve had, it’s made you grow. Look at you now, so full of life and love. Remember when you first arrived?” Tony’s hands never stopped caressing his shuddering sobs. “You were so full of fear and nothing else. Six months, Pete, six months was all it took for you to grow. Not fully of course, but this is a pretty great feat, no?” He stopped to squeeze Peter closer into his chest.

“And for me, moy syn, this has been the best six months of my life. I lost you once, and I’m losing you again now but at least this time-” A weighted inhale. “At least this time, we get to say goodbye.” Peter’s hands slowly unclasped themselves from behind his back, extending themselves so that Tony too, was wrapped in his arms.

_(Shed your tears, moy syn. Tears for your dead, and also for your growth.)_

“Papochka,” Peter murmured.

“Yeah?”

“Your pronunciation’s still really bad,” Peter laughed wetly at his father’s surprised guffaw. “But that’s not because of me, don’t worry. I know.”

Tony rolled his eyes, patting his shoulder one last time before going back to the gleaming switch.

“Try not to drive your Tony too crazy, eh?” A wink. “He’s got a lot to get used to.”

Peter’s head lolled to the side fondly as he watched Tony’s thumb flick it up into place.

“Goodbye, Papochka,” were his last words, before waves of acid green swept him off his feet.

*

“You’re that son I'm supposed to have, aren’t you?” Tony’s raised eyebrow came as a surprise to the frenzied teen who had ran all the way from Queens to Manhattan.

“H-How’d you know?”

“It came to me in a dream. So real,” Tony waved for him to enter the tower. “Come in then, we’ve got some talking to do.”

_(Speak, moy syn. There is much use for a son’s voice.)_

Peter bit his lip. "Tony?"

"Yeah?"

“I’m Peter, by the way.”

Peter. Peter Parker. Spiderman. That was him. Nobody told him that was him.

Tony’s lips quirked up in a smirk. “I know, kid. I know.”

Nobody told him, but he knew.

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaaaaaanddddd that was that. So the bare minimum of Russian I used in this fic was: Soldat (Soldier), Mactep (Master), Papochka (Daddy) and moy syn (My son).
> 
> Thanks for staying till the end! <3000


End file.
